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Shoulders straight. Breathing deep. Cup of
black coffee held high. Left hand in the pocket like a businessman. Slow
but prominent movements. I'll act like a one-minute manager.
The lounge smells of dogs. The TV set stands with eyes closed next to
the halfprice-sale hi-fi: cassette-to-cassette tape deck, turn table,
CD and DVD player all-in-one. Yesterday's flowers: sign of the times.
Yesterday this casting agency was run from a modern midtown marble building.
Today it is a hallway for cheap prints of famous paintings.
She walks down the narrow wooden steps as if it is early in the morning.
She greets me with a forced smile. Waves a hand as if to beckon the old
lounge couch. I smell the dogs. Poodles, probably.
She mumbles about politics, prisoners, promotions. A victim of circumstances?
The fittest survive. I start to introduce myself. She thought I was here
for an audition... a job in the movies, maybe? No script? No portfolio?
She represented most of them. Yes, I know. She made most of them. Yes,
I heard. She was famous. It was she that... Yes, I...
She falls back into the mock-leather chair. The maid rushes in with a
tray stacked with inherited silver. Milk jug from the previous decade.
Cups and saucers from a previous marriage. I've been told what to expect.
Without asking and I think, without anticipation, she reminisced, journeying
the past until, finally, she realizes. She smiles. Sadly.
I don't know how to call her. I tell her that I'm not here to be interviewed.
I'm not a job seeker, I don't want to be in the movies or on stage. I
want to tell her I'm the son she gave up for adoption when she was sixteen.
She smiles again. Sadly again. I tell her that I'm here to interview her.
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